Emotional Range of the Twosome
by phezl
Summary: This story will be a series of one-shots depicting Ron and Hermione and their thoughts throughout the series.  This forth one-shot depicts Ron's feelings while sitting beside Hermione at Shell Cottage.
1. Chapter 1

Unsurprisingly, she finds him in the Gryffindor Common Room. After all, her own feet, throbbing with the dull but satisfying ache that accompanies the removal of a tremendous burden—such as the onus of saving the Wizarding world at 18—had automatically led her there as well. He is sitting on the couch, back unnaturally straight, staring ahead into the fire, which is bouncing merrily in the fireplace, as if oblivious to the despair held within his penetrating gaze.

He is so focused on his grief, or so out of focus because of it, that he does not notice her soft steps indenting the carpet as she walks gently over to him. To her, he looks numb, like his soul has been shot up with her parents' dental Novocain and everything that is _Ron_ has frozen within his veins. Slowly, she sits down beside him, exuding the guardedness of one approaching a wild beast that could lash out at any moment. This Ron may as well be such a foreign creature—one she doesn't know how to handle. She has never seen him so vulnerable before. So broken.

And it scares her, because she knows it is her responsibility to fix him. She fears failure, now more than ever. This fear consumes her, penetrating every pore of her body until she is terrified to breathe, less it disturb Ron in some way. But then, as her eyes roam over the man beside her, one whose red hair, freckles and lanky build warm her heart with their familiarity, she remembers him to be the one who welcomed her into a family of nine when she erased her own from existence. The one who held her in his arms at Shell Cottage and whispered how important she was to everyone—to him—dispelling the notion that the slit across her throat branded her as a worthless Mudblood. The knowledge that her abrasive, tactless Ron is capable of tenderness makes love swell within her chest and spread like wildfire throughout her body, burning away all fear in its path. Sparked with the instinctual confidence of love's assurance, she raises an open palm and presses it to his cheek, turning his face from the fireplace, forcing him to finally acknowledge her presence.

At her touch, he stirs. He lightly brings his own hand up to meet hers, his eyes conveying uncertainty.

"Hey," she whispers, trying to smile reassuringly.

"Hey," he croaks back, throat clogged with unshed tears.

Silence falls for a few long moments until she clears her throat and advises him, warily at first, but then with increasing momentum as she settles comfortably into her perfected bossy attitude, "You can cry, you know. I mean, if you need to. Or even if you just want to. It can be really cathartic. I should know. Really Ronald, it isn't healthy to keep everything bottled-up inside. Do you remember Harry during our 5th year? He was like a boiling teakettle and you didn't know when the shrieking whistle was going to blow! That's what happens when…"

Suddenly she is shocked from rambling into silence when he shouts with irritation, "Shut up, will you! I'm not going to bloody cry!"

In the same moment, a few tears manage to trickle down his face against his will. He is so overcome with both rage and grief that he begins to shake violently.

Undeterred by his harsh tone and compelled into action by his fragility, she wraps both her arms around him as tightly as she can, as though fearful he would blow over without her support. She isn't so sure that isn't the case. She buries her face into his neck, and can't help but lament his current state as a compassionate, "Oh, Ron," escapes her lips. Thankfully her vice grip hold has managed to calm him slightly, and she starts rubbing small circles into his back to soothe him further. Slowly he starts to calm down, his breaths becoming more even, and he collapses into her embrace.

"I don't want to cry. I don't want to be sad. I need to be angry," he mutters resignedly.

She stills, her hands stopping their path along his back. She then grabs him by his shoulders and pushes him back slightly, giving her a clear view of his face. She raises an eyebrow and reiterates his word in confusion.

"Angry?"

Suddenly his eyes, so dull until now, light up with unexpected fervor.

"Yeah," he repeats firmly, "angry!"

"There are so many things to be angry about. Someone _killed_ Fred. And Remus. And Tonks. And Collin. Greyback would have killed Lavender, too, if you hadn't stopped him!"

At the mention of Fenrir Greyback, she can't help but shudder, and he notices. This only fuels the fire raging inside of him. He takes his hand, the same one which he used timidly this year when searching for her own, and grabs her chin aggressively in his quest to hold her attention.

In contrast to his grip, his tone is gentle, his eyes soft.

"I don't even want to _think_ about what Greyback would have done to you." His eyes flash dangerously before he continues in a voice that quakes with silent fury, "What _she_ did do to you."

She gulps down her rising fear at the mention of her torture, and he automatically moves his hand from her chin to the slit on her neck. As he starts caressing the scar with his fingers, he stares straight into her eyes and says, "I have to be angry, Hermione. I don't care what everyone thinks—this war isn't over. It won't be over until all of the Death Eaters pay for what they did. You see? I don't have time to be sad when evil is still out there! When they can still hurt people!"

She can't help but think, looking at his eyes, which are pleading for her understanding, that _people_ might specifically be one _person_. Her. She comes to this realization, and he gives her a small smile when he sees the recognition on her face.

"Hermione, I can't…"

His voice breaks as he loses his battle against tears once more. She wraps her arms around him, as before, and lets him ride the waves of his grief. His few tears turn into furious drops, which turn into full-out sobs. She loses track of time, lost in the pattern of moving her hand up and down his back, in an effort to remind him that he is not alone. Eventually, he resurfaces, and his blotchy face is painted with exhaustion. She grabs his chin, mimicking his previous action—now is her turn to be aggressive.

"Ron, it's ok to be both sad and angry! Both emotions are just two different ways of showing how much you care about people! You're devastated that they're gone, but you're also furious that they were hurt. Sadness is not a weakness, Ronald! The fact that you're so passionate about the people you love, it's one of the things I love most about you—" she gasps at her own words.

She has messed up, breaking the rules of this game they play. They are highly opinionated about each other's personal decisions to show they care. They reuse each other's words to show they were paying attention. They take subtle actions—a kiss on the cheek, a bottle of perfume, a comforting arm around the shoulder—never acknowledging that their behavior is out of the ordinary. But they have never, never been candid about their feelings.

She hazards a peek at Ron, anxious of his reaction, but if he feels awkward because of her admission, he doesn't show it. Instead, he gently removes her hand from his chin, moves both of his to hold her face, and leans in. This kiss, so unlike their first, is sweet, chaste, but with the promise of more to come. He pulls away from her much too soon, and she feels her face flush with embarrassment.

He breaks her train of thought as he asks in a hopeful but tired voice, "Will you stay with me tonight?"

At his words she remembers the depth of his fatigue, and feels foolish.

"Of course I will."

She gently pushes him down onto the couch, laying him on his side, before lying down next to him. He brings an arm around her side, pulling her against his chest. As she rests her head comfortably against him, she hears him whisper into her hair, "And by the way. I think snogging in the middle of the battle was a clear, "I love you," from the both of us, so you shouldn't mind saying it again." Then she feels him tense, and he asks worriedly, "You do love me, don't you?"

She turns so that she can see his face. "Do you?"

He responds indignantly, "'Course I do! I don't just go snogging people I don't care about!"

She gives him a pointed look, and she can see his ears turning violently red as he regrets his words.

"Ok fine, but I don't do _this_," he gestures at their entwined bodies, "with just anyone."

"After today, I would only be able to sleep if I had you next to me, Hermione. I do love you. And…I'm sorry about Lavender."

He mutters the last past under his breath, but she hears him, and can't help but smirk at his cowardice regarding that particular issue.

"Oh, I love you, too, you insufferable prat. Merlin knows why."

She sees him give her the first genuine smile she's seen from him in ages. He concludes the matter with an air of finality, "Well, glad that's settled."

She snuggles back into him, but before either can fade off into sleep he whispers to her again.

"I'm still sad. And angry."

She gives the hands he has wrapped around her a squeeze and replies, "I think you will be for a long time. I think our best bet is to make sure you're happy, too."

He kisses her hair and mutters softly, "I'm happy now."

"Good."

And with that, both eighteen-year-olds fell asleep, oblivious to the rising sun, the work ahead of them, and everything, really, but each other.

Author's Note: Please leave reviews so that I can better my writing! Also, let me know of any specific moments you would like me to write about in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

Uptight. Nosy. Know-it-all. These were the names she had grown accustomed to in her six years at Hogwarts. And, if she were perfectly honest with herself, even before that. And though these names often hurt more than she'd care to admit, Hermione knew that they proved one thing—she had and never would be ignorant, not in any aspect of her life. When it came to knowing the facts delineated in _Hogwarts, A History_, recognizing the need for a powerful curse that would reveal a sneak, or understanding the people in her life, Hermione Granger was always ahead of the curve. In fact, she studied people the same way she did everything else: diligently.

This is why, especially after years of careful examination, full of trial and error, she cannot even fathom what possessed Ron to snog Lavender Brown. She thought everything had been so clear!

She had perceived Ron's outburst at the Yule Ball for what it was: jealousy. She had tried to manipulate this knowledge to her advantage, purposefully writing long letters to Viktor when Ron was around to see. That is, until Harry confusedly asked for an explanation of his catastrophic date with Cho and she couldn't help but flush with embarrassment. Clearly if the normally intuitive Harry was too thick to realize the bringing up of exes was just a girl's way of testing the waters, Ron would have been equally if not more clueless.

But she hadn't just been subtle! After all, how much more obvious could a good luck kiss on the cheek be? Did he need a full on snog to understand that she liked him desperately? Then again, she mused wryly to herself, he now had _Lavender Brown_ for that. But then why had Ron given her perfume of all things for Christmas last year? Surely that wasn't a normal present from a best friend? After all, Harry had given her _New Theory of Numerology_. She, on the other hand, had gotten Ron a homework planner. How could she have been so stupid! She had thought it would be utilitarian—after all, Ron _would_ find use out of it when studying for his OWL's. But then he had gone and been surprisingly thoughtful, buying her perfume. And what had she called his far superior gift? _Unusual_. If she remembered correctly, he didn't seem off put by her comment at the time, replying, "No problem." But what if he had been hoping for a more enthusiastic thanks? _Lavender Brown_ probably would have hugged him with that vice-like grip of hers, squealing with girlish joy.

Though there was still the matter of her asking him to Slughorn's Christmas Party. Didn't he know how hard that was for her? She had only gained the courage because of the hints he had been dropping since the term started! _He_ was the one who eyed her and Harry suspiciously when they dropped back to talk alone. _He_ was the one who tried to play himself up when she mentioned how fanciable Harry had become. And _he_ was the one who told her he didn't want her to go to the party with McLaggen, looking at her with those gorgeous blue eyes that had, at the time, seemed to be saying, quite clearly, yes to her implied invitation.

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, those warm blue eyes turned to ice. She knew something had been bothering him for weeks, knew that his sharp words to her after the Quidditch match as well as the weeks leading up to it were symptoms of some underlying problem. She had _tried_ to be understanding and not press the matter. She had _tried _to be patient and let him come to her on his own terms. And no matter how horridly he had treated her recently, once he apologized, she would have gladly forgiven him. She always ended up forgiving him, because he was immature and didn't even know himself why he acted the way he did. Because he was genuinely repentant. Because he replaced the awful memories with wonderful ones. Because he was _Ron_.

But _this. _Hermione had forgiven Ronald Weasley for a lot of things, but she would _never_ forgive him from ruining _them_. Beneath the grief, she could feel a strong undercurrent of potent anger. They had been moving towards this point for three years—maybe even six, though their younger selves wouldn't have known it—and it was entirely his fault that they couldn't be together.

So now she sits in an empty classroom, leaning on her study of conjuring charms to help her remember that not everything she knew was eviscerated the moment she saw Ron Weasley snogging someone that wasn't well…her. Hermione Granger had never been, and would never be, ignorant, and she knew as confidently as she knew anything that Ron Weasley was the only man for her. Which made it that much harder to see that was _evidently_ not the case for him.

In the end, she trusted him and he was careless with her heart. When she sets the birds on him, when she snidely laughs at him in class, when she invites McLaggen to the party, she does so only in the hope that he too will understand what it feels like to suffer the burning sting of betrayal.

/I wrote this simply because I get frustrated when people portray Hermione as someone who is so insecure that she can't possibly imagine that Ron could have feelings for her. Based on her behavior on OOTP, she obviously knows Ron likes her and she likes him, and she tries to get the ball moving but it doesn't work out. I see HBP as her getting frustrated with Ron's inaction and so just stepping to the plate herself. Then, he completely rips the carpet out from under her by kissing Lavender, and she is furious at him for 1) doing this even though he agreed, at least implicitly, to go to Slughorn's party with her and 2) because she thought they had something. I don't think she ever thought that Ron loved Lavender rather than her-I think it's quite obvious to everyone, including Hermione, that Ron and Lavender's relationship is purely physical.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting impatiently outside the Auror Office at 12 pm on Friday, Hermione can't help but feel out of place. She should be in her office, writing that memo on House Elf Payment Policy that needs to be ready for the department meeting on Monday, not crossing and uncrossing her legs as she waits for Harry and Ron to come out of Harry's office. It almost makes her regret intervening—no, she stops herself; it was good that she'd been there. If she hadn't finally given in to Ron's demands that she "take a bloody day off", she wouldn't have been in Diagon Alley book shopping and stocking up on potions ingredients. She wouldn't have stopped by the Leaky Cauldron to visit Hannah and have a drink. She wouldn't have been there to stop those rouge Voldemort supporters…

She wouldn't have saved all those people from harm, including that eleven-year-old _muggleborn_ boy who had clearly just finished shopping for his first year at Hogwarts. She can't help but smile, remembering his face as it glowed with incredulous happiness when he walked into the pub, his flushed cheeks almost as red as his hair. Yes, she thought to herself, she definitely did the right thing. If only Ron would see it that way.

She takes her right hand and brings it to her face, fingers clutching at both sides of her temple in anxiety. Ron is currently being told the story by Harry, who himself is barely succeeding in containing his anger. It's good, in a way, because she has no desire to again relive the incident that just occurred—especially after having to stand next to Harry as he witnessed the event first-hand, using her memory and his pensieve to verify her story and collect details necessary for the trial. But knowing Ron, he would not let this rest. He would be furious at himself, as his actions indirectly allowed her to be at the scene. He'd be just as angry at her for not thinking of her own safety and recklessly facing the problem instead of calling for help. Hah, she snorted to herself. The filthy hypocrite. As if he didn't face the same sort of danger, or worse, as part of his job description.

Just as she begins to be impassioned by this imaginary argument, Ron comes barreling out the door, letting it slam against the wall in his haste. His eyes are blazing, and she feels her breath catch from intimidation. His gaze meets hers and he immediately walks towards her and gathers her up in his arms. She is surprised when, instead of serenity from Ron's embrace, she feels the unwelcome tug of apparition.

When the world stops spinning, she recognizes over Ron's shoulder that he has taken them back to their bedroom. She vaguely wonders when they decided it was rude to have their screaming matches in public before he holds her, his hands at her waist, a few feet away from him so that he can see her properly before asking brusquely, "So you're all right, then?"

"Yes," she exhales, "I'm fine. _Honestly_," she adds.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Hermione. You haven't even been to see a healer."

At his words, she takes a brief inventory of her appearance. There are bruises starting to form on her forearms. There's a nasty scrape on her left knee, visible through her now torn jeans. There's a distinct hole in her shirt at the side—the result of being held against a flame. And, although she can't see it, the residual pain in the left side of her face leads her to believe that there is a faint hand-impression there. These are the visible scars. She mentally swears, wishing she had had the foresight to clean herself up a bit before facing Ron's scrutiny. Feeling defensive, she can't help but point out, "The reason I haven't been to see a healer is that _you_ literally pulled me out of the Ministry before I had the chance!"

His eyes narrow, sensing her evasiveness, but he grudgingly concedes his anger for a moment to prioritize her well-being. "Well come on then, sit down," he commands.

Thrown off by his change in attitude, she asks in confusion,"…What?"

"Sit down," he enunciates slowly. Normally she would roll her eyes at his condescension, but she thinks now might not be the best time, so she reluctantly obeys and cautiously lowers herself onto the foot of their bed.

"Good," he says as he takes out his wand and starts examining her wounds. He turns around to grab something from a drawer. She takes a moment, while waiting through the awkward silence, to observe her boyfriend. Her eyes scan his frame, starting with his unruly red hair—almost as bad as Harry's. He'd need to get it cut soon. Then down his back, his well-defined Auror muscles outlined by his dress shirt—the one she bought him last Christmas. When her gaze shifts down, she notices that he is wearing brown socks that clash horribly with his black shoes. At this, something so endearingly Ron, her love for him forces her into capitulation.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she apologizes plaintively.

He turns around holding a tube of healing cream and comes back before her. He kneels down, so that they are at eye-level, and he responds, "Tell me what happened."

"Ron, I'm sorry I got messed up in this. It's over. I'm fine. Let's just forget about it," she pleads.

"Don't lie to me, Hermione. You're not sorry. You would do the same exact thing again if given the chance. Just tell me what happened."

"But, you already heard from Harry," she protests.

His eyes bore into hers. "I want to here it from you." He then proceeds to open the bottle of cream and apply it to her knee, giving her no further opportunity to object.

Sighing in defeat, she decides to provide enough details to placate him.

"Well, after shopping this morning I decided to stop by the Leaky Cauldron."

_She opens the door to the Leaky Cauldron with a sigh of relief, immediately dumping her shopping bags onto the floor beside the bar. At the massive thud they make when they hit the ground, Hannah Abbot appears from behind the counter, holding an empty glass. Hannah's expression, initially irate, turns to amusement when her gaze falls upon her._

_ "Geez, Hermione. Just buy all of Flourish and Blotts, why don't you!"_

_ "Very funny, Hannah, "she responds sarcastically. Taking in her surroundings—namely the pub which is empty save her, Hannah, and two men sitting at a table in the corner—she quips, "At least with me running it, Flourish and Blotts would still be in business."_

_ "Oh, shut it. If my pub was full of people drinking at 10am, I'd have more reason to be concerned that I have now," she responds, while resuming her position underneath the bar's counter. _

_ Grinning, Hermione changes the subject," So how's Neville doing?"_

_ "Oh he's great! He's really loving his job…"_

_ Hermione's doesn't hear the rest, distracted by the jingle of the bell at the entrance to the pub. A small, freckled red-haired boy walks in with his bemused parents. He's holding his wand out in front of him with a level of reverence unexpected for a child so young. His parents go to sit down and he follows suit without thinking, his eyes still glued to the magical object lying in his palms. He's so preoccupied with his wand that he hasn't even noticed a small bit of dirt that has situated itself upon his cheek…_

"_Hermione!" Hannah reprimands. "Are you even listening to me?"_

"_Sorry!" she responds apologetically, "Just got distracted."_

_Hannah's eyes scan behind her, clearly attempting to identify Hermione's supposed distraction, and when she notices the boy she replies with nostalgia in her voice, "Ok, yeah, I've got to admit, I've got a soft-spot for first-years as well."_

"_Yeah, that's it," replies Hermione, though unconsciously her fingers begin to move over the expanse of her abdomen, as if exploring a possibility. _

"And I talked to Hannah for a little while. I asked her about Neville. We saw a family shopping for Hogwarts supplies," she continues, speaking to Ron's head since he is still knelt in front of her, doing the finishing touches on her knee.

_The bell at the door jingles again, signaling the entry of three new people into the pub. She can see that they're all men, but they're wearing hooded black cloaks that hide their faces. She tenses up immediately at the visual, her right hand darting for her wand, which had previously been lying peacefully but within arms length on the countertop—even this long after the war she can never stand to have it out of her sight. Her mind quickly tries to rationalize what she is seeing. Maybe they're just shielding themselves from the weather? It's not raining. _

_ Acting on her gut-instinct—something she couldn't help but learn to trust with Harry Potter as her best friend—she casts a disillusionment charm on herself. Just as she can see her hands disappear in front of her, she hears each man cast a spell. _

"_Stupefy!"_

"_Colloportus!"_

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

_As if synchronized, the two men at the corner table both fall from their chairs and hit the floor. The only door is sealed shut. _

_All three men then turn, one slightly in the front with the other two flanking him, and point their wands at Hannah, who is in the midst of lunging for her own. _

"_Accio wand," the cloaked figure in the front mutters lazily. Hannah's wand, which is inches from her hand, flies into his. He quickly pockets it and it disappears into his cloak. _

_ Hermione meanwhile tries to evaluate the situation. It's one against three. She'll need to get Hannah a wand and the family out of the pub as soon as possible. She currently has the element of surprise, but it'll be gone the minute she uses magic. But what if she doesn't use magic? With a plan in mind, she makes her way towards the three men._

"_What do you want?" Hannah asks, clearly both angry and frightened. _

"_Don't worry, love," drawls the leader of the three, "We're not here for you. We've heard that a certain Hermione Granger is here. Just tell us where she's run off to, and we'll be on our merry way." _

_At the mention of her name, Hermione freezes, suddenly unsure. "What could they possibly want with me?" she wonders. "And how did they know I was here?" Shaking her head and dispelling these thoughts she continues forward. _

"Three men in black cloaks game in. I was suspicious so I disillusioned myself. They disarmed Hannah. They were…they were looking for me."

"_I don't know what you're talking about," Hannah answers calmly, "I haven't seen Hermione in weeks." _

"_Now, love," the leader says with threats implied in his voice, "Lying won't help you none. Now why don't you just…"_

_Before he can continue, he falls to the ground, yelling out in agony. A wand flies across the room into the Hannah's surprised hands. Knowing she doesn't have much time Hermione shouts, "Hannah, apparate and get help! Take the family with you!"_

_She then turns her attention to the danger at hand. "Stupefy!" she cries, and one cloaked figure falls to the ground_

"I snuck up on the leader from behind while he was talking and kicked him. That created enough distraction to get Hannah a wand so she could apparate the family out."

At this admission of physical violence, she can see Ron's eyebrows rise, but he still does not face her; instead, he simply moves his attention to her arms.

"_Incarcerous!" yells the man left standing._

"_Diffindo!" cries Hermione, severing the ropes before they fall to the ground in front of her. Not wasting a moment, she retaliates, "Petrificus Totalus!"_

_Not expecting her evasive maneuver, the man falls prey to her body-bind curse, his surprised face frozen along with the rest of his body. _

"I managed to knock out the other two. Except the leader had gotten a wand and managed to hit me with a curse."

_Behind her, Hannah is holding the father—the mother and boy already safe. They exchange curt nods before Hannah disappears with a pop. Hermione turns her attention back to the leader, who has surely almost recovered from her kicks to his groin and ribs by this point, but is surprised to find him no longer in the spot where she had left him. By the time she relocates him, it is already too late. When her eyes meet his, he has already cast the spell with his companion's wand. _

"_Crucio!" _

_The pain consumes her instantaneously, causing her to collapse to the ground, her right knee catching her fall. The torn skin and blood at her kneecap are the least of her worries as she writhes under the Cruciatus curse. To others, it is pain like nothing they've ever felt before. But she__** has**__ felt it before, and her previous experience does nothing to stop her from feeling like she is bursting out of her skin. Even worse, he's laughing. Through the haze of her pain, she can't distinguish pitch. To her, his deep-throated chuckles are the same as the high-pitched maniacal cackles that haunt her dreams. Suddenly she can feel __**her**__ curly black hair pressed up against her face. That cold, silver dagger being dragged teasingly against her skin. Images of a chandelier breaking, glass projected in every direction press upon her from behind her eyelids. She doesn't even notice when the curse is lifted, and when the man lifts her off the ground and forces her against a nearby wall, she is still shaking. _

_Confident she can't escape him, the man takes a moment to toss off his hood, revealing his identity. She looks up at him through tear-stained eyes and sees someone she does not recognize. He's about her age, probably a few years older, with short brown hair. He would be extremely handsome, she notes, but his face is marred by the mocking quality of his expression. She pegs him as a Dolores Umbridge-type. He causes pain and smiles while he does so. _

_He roughly grabs the side of her face to focus her attention. _

"_So," he remarks while looking her up and down, "you are the famous Hermione Granger." _

_The look in his eyes makes her uncomfortable. It makes her think that maybe she's in a different kind of danger than she had originally thought. She hopes help will arrive soon, but knowing the bureaucracy of the Ministry, it'll be another 15 minutes before the Aurors arrive. _

"_Oh, well spotted," she replies scathingly. "It's not as if I've been in hundreds of Daily Prophets because I helped my friends save the Wizarding World." _

_He chuckles before responding, "I'd be more respectful if I were you. I have you in a rather precarious position." _

_As he says this, he begins to move his wand up and down her side. At the end of his sentence, he pauses his wand, and holds the tip at one point. She feels the wand start to heat up. It progressively burns hotter and hotter until she feels a small burst of air hit her side, rushing into the small hole where that part of her shirt used to be. He deftly moves his wand away before it can burn her skin. She swallows down her rising fear, leaving her with a sour taste in her mouth—the admission that his intimidation tactics might be working._

"_Now, Hermione," he says, continuing, "Do you know why we were sent here?" She feels herself shudder at the unwanted intimacy of him using her first name. _

"_No," she retorts, "But I assume you are going to tell me." _

"_I'm here because what better to show the Wizarding World that the Death Eaters are back than the kidnapping of Hermione Granger—Mudblood extraordinaire." _

_That vile word—__**Mudblood**__—is a dagger that has not dulled with time. Even now she continues to feel outraged and her hurt at being rejected—no, reviled—by her own society. _

_The man notices her face fall at his words and he has the audacity to grin. "What?" he jeers, "Don't you realize that no matter how many photo-ops and Orders of Merlin you've got, it doesn't change what you are? No matter how much you lie to yourself, no matter how much you try to offer up your accomplishments as proof of your worth, it doesn't fix the fact that don't belong here."_

_Somehow, with these words, this man manages to do what Malfoy's bullying did not. What torture did not. What an entire war based on the illegitimacy of her existence did not. They unleash the truth: that in spite of everything she's done—everything she fought a war at the precarious age of eighteen for—there will always be people who hate her. That within her own community is a heritage in which when children learn table manners they also learn blood-purity. That she will, for the rest of her life, have to face people possessing the worst kind of prejudice—the unexplained. The kind that is just an accepted fact of nature, incontrovertible. Even by her, the instrument of change of her generation. Some beliefs are simply embedded too deep. _

_Struck by hopelessness, she feels new tears trickle down her cheeks. _

"He grabbed me from the ground and pushed me against the wall. He told me the Death Eaters were returning and wanted my kidnapping to be their big unveiling. You know, using the world's most famous Mudblood as their example."

Even though she is conveying his sentiments in their most mild form, she speaks the words harshly, coating them in bitterness. Finally, Ron's eyes meet hers. The depth of anger, of love, and of understanding is so great within them that she wonders whether Ron's new Auror skills include Legilimency.

"_It's ok, sweetheart," the man responds, brushing the tears off her cheeks with his thumb and ill-intentioned comfort, "You still have use in this world—"_

_Her anger flares at his continued degradation and she bites back viciously before he can elaborate, "Yeah, to rid the Wizarding World of its true scum. Parasites like you!" _

_She doesn't register his palm moving towards her cheek until her entire face goes swinging to the right from the force of his slap. More tears spring from her eyes due to the brute force of the impact. She raises her head back up to face him, her eyes expressing utter loathing. She replies to his assault by coolly commenting, "Hitting me isn't going to make it any less true." _

_He reacts by grabbing both her arms and pulling them over her head while pressing his body within inches of hers. "Seems to me," he grunts, "That you need a lesson in discipline." _

_His proximity makes her breathing uneven, her eyes cautious and fearful as her body tenses against his. And then suddenly he's kissing her, trying to force her to open up to him. When she refuses to yield, he turns his attention to her neck, nipping at her skin none too gently. His free arm moves up and down her side while she twists and turns, attempting to break his hold. The futility of her current plan quickly dawns upon her, so she mentally prepares herself to enact the only possible escape plan she can formulate. When he brings his mouth towards hers again, she presses herself against him and reciprocates the kiss. _

_Surprised but eager, he releases her arms from above her head in order to explore the expanse of her stomach with both hands. She is nearly paralyzed from revulsion at his touch, but his fingers on her stomach remind her of her own exploration just an hour ago—curious rather than lecherous—and this jolts her into action. She trails her hands down his body under the guise of intimacy while secretly searching until she finds what she is looking for—peeking from his back jean pocket is his wand. Silently praying that he remains clueless for a few more seconds, she wraps her fingers around the wand and thinks clearly to herself, "Incendio!"_

_A second later, with no one there to hold her up any longer, she falls to the ground, slumped against the wall with his wand wrapped firmly in her fingers. The man is frantically trying to set out the fire that has just begun to consume his body. With her little remaining energy Hermione casts two spells. _

"_Aguamenti!" _

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

_Right as the shadows begin to carry her to unconsciousness, she hears the familiar "pop" of apparaition all around her. _

Unsure whether it is wise to gloss over the last bit or not, she begins hesitantly while staring at the ground, "I was so _angry_. I guess I provoked him a bit. He tried to teach my a lesson by…" At this point she relocks eyes with Ron and silently pleads with him not to overreact. She says the next few words carefully, "By forcing himself on me." Then she hurriedly finishes, "But he didn't get very far. While he was kissing me he got distracted and I stole his wand. I had just got him off of me when the Aurors arrived."

Relieved she has come to the end of her story, she exhales. She then notices, puzzled, as Ron seems to fight a battle between being passionate or calm, but as is typical, passion wins out. "Interesting story, Hermione," he starts out in a quiet voice that gets progressively louder as he goes on, "You seem to have conveniently omitted that the "curse" he used on you was the Cruciatus! You also seem to have left out all the horrible things he said to you about being muggleborn! Oh, but you told me he didn't succeed in _raping_ you, so I guess it's all right, then."

He notices her visibly flinch in the face of his anger, and he immediately regrets lashing out at her. He reaches out to hold her face in his hands. Then he continues, gently, "Don't you think I deserve to know exactly how he hurt you? How am I supposed to help you, otherwise? And how else would I know exactly how much to beat the shit out of whoever is responsible?" he finishes, joking weakly with a hesitant smile.

"I just didn't want you to worry," she begins in a small, apologetic voice, "I thought that…hang on"—her eyes suddenly narrow suspiciously and her tone turns accusatory—"How is it that you know everything that happened when I didn't tell you? Damn it, Harry! I told him not to tell you the worst bits!"

He replies angrily "Oh don't go blaming Harry! He didn't break his word. He, unlike _you_, thought I should know the truth, so he let me use the pensieve."

Now she is furious. "Why the hell did you make me tell you what happened when you already knew?"

"Because, _Hermione_," he replies, his voice thick with condescension, "I wanted to know whether you would be honest with me. Guess that was too much to expect from you!"

"Oh that's rich. You actually expected me to exhibit honesty while you were practicing deceit? How unbelievably hypocritical, Ronald!"

They are in the same position as they have been—her on the bed's edge and him kneeling in front of her—but now both are catching their breath, trying to reign in their anger instead of letting it run rampant.

Ron is the first to speak, his voice deliberately calm, "I just never want you to withhold things you know are important from me. I want you to tell me everything because I can help you and because I deserve to know."

Hermione replies hesitantly, knowing he won't like her response. "Look, Ron. I'm sorry you found out the way you did and not from me. But I would have preferred you not know at all." She brings her right palm up to cup the side of his face. "I would have preferred you not know because I knew how much it would upset you."

He gently removes her hand from his face before boring his eyes into her own. "How would you feel, Hermione, if I didn't tell you about my Auror missions? If I was hurt or tortured or nearly died and never told you about it?"

Her mouth goes dry and her whole body goes cold at the mere thought. Nothing she has experienced today compares to the terror evoked by such possibilities. And yet she would never forgive him for not telling her about every, single one.

Her admission of fault is reluctant but sincere. "I…I'm sorry Ron. I didn't realize." She closes the gap between them, pouring her apology into a tender kiss. She brings her hands up to Ron's chest, only to break the kiss in surprise. Beneath her fingers she can feel him shaking.

Concerned, her eyes flash to his. "Ron?"

Suddenly she finds herself wrapped up tightly in his arms—so tight it's almost as if he's afraid to let go. He speaks in ragged breaths, physically exhausted from fighting alternating waves of anger and relief.

"These people, Hermione. They fucking _hate_ you."—she shifts uncomfortably in his arms at the blunt truth of his words—"That means their cruelty has no limits. I should know. Because I _hate_ them. And if I got my hands on one of them, there's no saying what I would do."

In the face of Ron's words, which make her feel overwhelmingly hated and loved all at once, she finally starts to cry. The moment the tears arrive, she feels herself being swooped up, held against Ron's chest. He settles himself down under the covers, bringing her with him. He traces reassuring circles on her back while she continues to helplessly sob, curled in fetal position. Through the sound of her own pain she manages to hear him voice his own as he bitterly remarks, "Now this is the second time I wasn't there to protect you."

She automatically is sobered by his self-deprecation and turns around so she can see his face. "Ronald Weasley!" she reproaches, "Don't you dare blame yourself for this!"

"Why shouldn't I? Big help I am, always failing when you need me most." He is firm in his self-hatred.

"No." she objects fiercely. "Your job isn't to prevent the pain. It's to make it go away." She adjusts herself in his arms so that her head is buried in the crook of his neck. "_That_ is when I need you most. For that you've always been there. In the hospital wing. At Dumbledore's funeral. With my parents. At shell cottage."

"You're always there for me, Ron."

She feels his muscles lose some of their tension as he is mollified by her words. When he speaks, it is in the fervent manner of someone who believes in an incontrovertible truth of his own.

"Always."


	4. Chapter 4

Rage. Among his internal frenzy of emotions—among the terror, the relief, and the fear—it is rage that consumes him as he sits by her bedside, using all his restraint to hold her hands gently within his own. His fingers trail softly over hers with a tenderness that extends beyond this moment of fragility. It is clear that he will never touch this girl with anything but the utmost care. Yet despite his soothing actions, he is still crumbling under the weight of his own anger. He can feel it in the uncomfortably tight spot in his chest, the tense vein in his neck and the pressure on his knees. He can feel it in his uneven, forced breaths. With each new inhale he tries to remind himself that she's safe, but this anchor of reassurance is never unaccompanied. _She's safe_ is followed by her limp, crumpled form on the floor of Malfoy Manor. By her terrified, plaintive pleas begging them to understand that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she simply _didn't know_ the answers to their questions. By her tortured screams—screams that, even as memories, cause him to stop breathing altogether.

He wants to blame them—the Malfoys, the Death Eaters, even Voldemort himself—for doing this to her. For taking the person with the most spirit and passion he knows and draining her of life. But he can't. He hates them, sure, but what else could he expect from evil people if not the unimaginably cruel? He just always expected himself to be there, ready to stop them from hurting the people he cared about. In the face of the inevitable clash of good and evil, he was supposed to be her shield.

A small voice wants to defend him from himself, insisting that he did everything he could—he offered to take her place, he shouted her name with all his might, and in the end he was the one who spirited her away to safety. But as he takes in the ugly red gash across her neck, the frightening pallor of her skin, he knows that _everything he could_ is synonymous with failure.

Suddenly she stirs, and for a moment she is frantic, her eyes wild. When she meets his gaze, slowly her panic begins to recede, her breathing becoming more regular. In a weak, scratchy voice she lets out one word: Ron.

She says his name with relief, with thanks—with everything he doesn't deserve. Propelled by feelings of ineptitude, he leaps from his sitting position and quickly settles himself next to her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She adjusts herself so that her head is lying on his chest, and then closes her eyes. This brief interaction has drained her of the little energy she has. Before drifting off into sleep, she says his name again, her voice so soft that it is captured within the fibers of his sweater. For the moment, she looks and sounds at peace.

He brings his hand up and down her back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, his mind left to ponder in awe the depths of her forgiveness. He feels immature, unprepared, and ungrateful. He feels foolish. He feels stupid. But underneath the self-loathing, he can't help but do what he usually does—take his cue from Hermione. Lying in bed, with his arms wrapped about her, knowing that they are safe, he feels strangely at peace. As he allows himself to close his own eyes, ready to join Hermione in sleep, a singular thought occurs to him: that in addition to fighting for his family, his friends, and for what he knows is right, he is now also fighting for a lifetime of peace, full of moments like this one.


End file.
